Magic Awakening: An Urban Fantasy Novel (The Spirit War Chronicles Book 1) Page 2

  “If you say so,” I said, desperately wanting to believe he was right. I had just had an incredibly vivid dream, and it wouldn’t be the first time that I had seen some weird shit within a few minutes of waking up. Begrudgingly, I accepted what he had said.

  A half hour later, we had landed in Amsterdam, and immediately my mood shifted. I couldn’t stop myself from grinning like a school kid on the first day of summer, having finally touched down on the continent of culture, history and—I would never admit this out loud with Brady right next to me—some handsome men to look at. I very much looked forward to bantering with whomever we ran across, especially in Italy. Ciao, bella. The thought alone aroused me just a bit. Just keep it verbal, though. Nothing more.

  We went through Schipol Airport in almost no time, with our checked bags from Norwegian Air coming out in shockingly record time. I kept my hands in my coat, over the hidden Ebony and Ivory, as we waited for our bags. Being cautious had become a habit, but my wandering, watchful eyes never saw anything that even triggered a warning, let alone a need to pull out my weapons. I jokingly told Brady not to be the stereotypical asshole American, and he told me not to let the stereotype spread that even the women were crazy about guns in America. I smirked but went silent, cautious that someone might overhear us. You could never be too cautious as a CIA agent—or a woman, honestly—that someone creepy or dangerous would trail you.

  After we’d grabbed our bags, we took the metro down to Amsterdam Centraal—I knew it meant nothing, but it made me excited that they spelled things differently than us—and walked just under a kilometer toward our sleeping quarters for the next three nights, a mix of an Irish Pub and a hostel called Durty Nelly’s. A gentleman with a hoop earring on his right ear, a tattoo of a red angel on his right arm, and a thick red beard greeted us at the doorway. When he opened his mouth, I expected Irish, or perhaps British.

  Instead, I got a Dutch accent. I should have known—I was in the Netherlands. This is why you keep your mouth shut, American.

  “Welcome to Durty Nelly’s,” he said with a warm smile and calm brown eyes. “I’m Carsis, owner of Durty Nelly’s, among other things. You two are checking in?”

  “For the first time ever in Amsterdam, yep,” I said as Brady stood a couple of feet behind me, scanning the bar. Aside from the bartender, a man who actually had an Irish accent and a brown beard; a woman with brown hair and a thin frame with an Australian accent; and two tall men with British accents, one with short, brown hair and the other with curly black hair, the place was empty. I removed my hands from my jacket, feeling at ease.

  “Glorious! We always love being someone’s first,” Carsis said. “You’ll have a blast here. Amsterdam is one of the best places to start a Europe tour. How long are you here for?”

  “A month,” I said, a smile creeping on my face. “Just long enough to enjoy the local delicacy and not have to suffer from drug testing.”

  Carsis laughed, politely enough to humor me but clearly having heard this line probably a half-dozen times a day. I liked the guy. He humored us, didn’t judge us for our nationality—though I wouldn’t blame him if he had—and just had a general good vibe. If the rest of Europe went like this, I might just quit the CIA, move here, and eat space cakes every day.

  “Cheers to that. Can I see your passports, please,” Carsis said as he took our documents and typed some information in. “Just be careful. They got this new strand called Devil’s Eye. Some serious shit. I wouldn’t recommend it for most. Have you smoked or done any strand of drugs before?”

  “Not for several years,” I said.

  Carsis nodded and typed for a few more seconds. He paused, briefly glanced down at the keyboard, and then perked up and handed our documents back.

  “If you’re planning on doing it once, well, it depends on how much you like danger.”

  It’s like he knew how to get me to do it.

  “If you plan on smoking more, don’t do it. Devil’s Eye is the type of thing that will either thrill you or scare you into resurrecting D.A.R.E. Wouldn’t take that risk if I were you.”

  I put that in the back of my mind as Carsis handed us some forms to fill out and made small talk with Brady. I noticed that the two Brits had gone upstairs, chatting about something that had happened the previous night with a Brit they’d met while at a nearby bar, Big Shots Bar. Apparently the poor lad had drunk too much, given numerous cheers “for the lads!” and then disappeared with a lady at the Red Light District, going well past the 20 minutes the girls usually gave. If nothing else, I’d have to find those guys and hang out for the stories alone. I had no interest in a hooker, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t laugh.

  “You guys are all checked in,” Carsis said suddenly, shaking me out of my distracted state. “Breakfast is from 7 a.m. to 10 a.m., and you guys get a discounted menu for staying at the hostel. And just a heads up, be careful. We’re, shall we say, having a few more reports of theft and missing people these days. I don’t think it’s anything too bad, just use common sense.”

  “Don’t worry, anyone tries to ruin us, they’ll be the ones going missing,” I said with a smirk, which drew a sigh and a stare from Brady. Fortunately, Carsis laughed at my probably-too-boastful quip.

  “I’d expect nothing less from the way you two walked in. Sonya, Brady, enjoy!”

  How does he know my name? I didn’t—

  Oh, wait, I showed him my passport. Stupid. You sure you didn’t eat a brownie on the plane?

  We made our way up the stairs, talking about the different dialects we’d hear over the ensuing days.

  “Hope we run into those British guys,” I said. “Did you overhear their stories? Maybe you can have one too. When’s the last time you had a nice lady from Boston?”

  “Shut it,” Brady said. “Besides, I’m not interested in a hooker. I got better taste than that.”

  “Until you’re a half-dozen shots of Grey Goose in.”

  “I—” he said, but he went silent. I knew what his standards did when he drank as he normally did—namely, they vanished. “You make sure I don’t go crazy.”

  “Me?!? You’re a big boy, you can handle it. Do you really want to let me remind you for the next decade how I was the more mature adult in Europe?”

  Brady snorted through his nose. He wasn’t ready to give the shrug of defeat, but he was close.

  “I’m just saying, if I meet a nice German lady—”

  “I swear, you and Germans, you might as well stay in Berlin when we get there,” I said, now putting on a German accent. “ ‘Hi, I am Lisa. Because I am German, you want to sleep with me.’ Did I do it right?”

  “You forgot the way they kiss, but otherwise, sure.”

  “Ugh, that’s the last thing I need, an image of my brother kissing the German way.”

  “You could always just leapfrog Germany and go to Poland.”

  “And skip Oktoberfest? I’ll just take your beer if you get frisky with Hanna.”

  Finally, we reached the room Carsis had assigned us. 115. I told myself to be friendly and social but to not reveal too much about myself. I pressed the card key against the door, the latch unlocked, and Brady pushed it open. Inside, the two Brits awaited. Beautiful. Let the good times roll. The shower was in use, running at full blast with steam coming from under the door. I smiled and said hi to my hostel mates.

  “Welcome to Amsterdam lads, I’m Nicholas, that’s my brother Richard,” the taller Brit with the curly hair said, smiling. He had rich brown eyes, and I loved tall guys. My first impression was that he was probably into me. But I wasn’t that keen on going past casual flirting with anyone, as I’d come here to relax with the only family I had and see some historical landmarks, not get emotionally entangled.

  “I’m Sonya, and this is Brady,” I said. “Can you tell we’re Americans?”

  “Quite,” Richard replied, drawing laughter from everyone. “At least you don’t have the California drawn out accent.”

  “
Oh, my, God,” I said, imitating it, drawing laughter from them. “No, we’re from the Northeast. Boston. So we sometimes become assholes, but we’ll try not to be too stereotypical on this trip.”

  “And in return, we won’t drink tea and talk about ‘real football’ too much.”

  OK, maybe I could fall in love.

  “Real Madrid?”

  “Manchester United!”

  “You guys are crazy,” Brady said as he took the bottom bunk bed. I mocked him as I threw my bag on the top bunk. The shower turned off and I sat on the edge of Brady’s bed, finally happy to be able to sit and stretch my legs out into open space.

  We bantered some more about which was better, football or American football. I was kind of pompous in calling it American football, but I did it partially to aggravate Brady a bit. Hey, what were siblings for if not jabbing at each other?

  The conversation got intense just as the shower door opened. I turned and tried to keep a composed face, but what I saw was… well, it was hot.

  There stood an absolute Greek god of a man with solid but not disgustingly visible abs, a cut jawline, sharp blue eyes, shaggy brown hair, and facial hair that looked more like a 10 o’clock phantom than a 5 o’clock shadow, wearing only a white towel which opened up just around his right thigh. He also had a few scars, with a couple on his forearms and one on his neck.

  “New members in 115! How are you, darling?”

  And he was Australian?

  Oh, this is going to be trouble.

  Chapter 2

  “She’s doing fine, we just got here. And you are?”

  Ugh, Brady, damnit. I’m a grown woman, I know how to handle this. This isn’t going to go how you think it is.

  “Cheers, mate, my name is Jack, but I go by DJ. That’s what everyone calls me.”

  “D. J?” Brady asked, as if incredulous that anyone would go by such a name, but I could hear the fear in his voice. The fear that I had just met the man that I would go into heat like a horny dog for, the kind of man that I would turn what was supposed to be three nights in Amsterdam into the entire month.

  The funny thing was, while DJ was hotter than a Vegas summer day, I had no interest in doing anything more than bantering—and if he were a dumb Aussie jock, that would end quickly. But Brady had to take on the fatherly role. It was inscribed both in his DNA and by our past.

  “Yeah, mate, it’s just one of those things that stuck. My middle name is Dennis, last name Jordan, so it just kind of stuck. And what’s your name?”

  Nothing about what DJ said sounded condescending, yet it carried the confidence of someone who knew they had the higher ground and could act accordingly. If Brady thought he was proving a point, well, he was—just not the point he was thinking of.

  “Brady, Brady Ferguson. I’m—”

  “From America? I know.”

  Brady fumed while I inadvertently laughed. It wasn’t like the American accent was easily confused with anything else. Brady just didn’t like getting put in his place—especially when it came to his “little” sister getting her way over his wishes.

  I only regretted it because I didn’t want to give DJ confidence to try anything on me past “darling,” which was already a bit much.

  “Yeah, we’re from Boston. Well, actually, born in New York, but just moved up there.”

  “Oh, cheers, I just came from there! You Americans know how to do the biggest of the big right, that’s for sure.”

  “Yes, we do, more so than the Australians,” Brady said, and now I was going from entertained to mildly annoyed. Brady had a way of being passively condescending when he didn’t like a guy who hit on me, and while we usually ended up agreeing in our evaluations of my pursuers—namely, that none of them were worthwhile—I hated the patronizing tone he took.

  Though, to be fair, given that neither of us ever knew our father and Mom died a long time ago, I guess I kind of appreciated having someone look out for my interests, even if I had to remind him to not do it so heavy-handedly.

  “What were you doing in Boston?” I asked, failing to ignore the muscles in his body as he put on his boxers and shorts.

  “New York, actually. I received the Clairmont Literature Award for best novel in 2015.”

  My heart just about skipped a beat. I loved reading! How did I not recognize the name Jack D. Jordan? Or DJ Jordan? Or anything—

  “You didn’t tell us that last night, you bloody bastard!” Nicholas remarked.

  “You didn’t ask,” DJ said with that same self-assured smile. I wanted so badly to think it was a cocky, arrogant smirk, but for whatever reason, my gut just didn’t see him that way.

  I glanced at Brady, who had looked back down at his phone. I knew full well he was listening to everything said, even if he had the Jets schedule pulled up on ESPN. I looked at the two Brits, who looked at DJ with a kind of awe that a normal guy would get upon meeting his sports icon. I was curious, yes, but I also made sure to temper my expectations. Maybe he had just drunk so much the Brits had wanted to give him the gold for shots taken.

  “You told us you were a writer!” Nicholas said.

  “I did. But you didn’t ask anything else,” DJ said as he put his shirt on, a long sleeve green t-shirt that conformed rather well to his body. “It’s simple, mate. I prefer to keep things close to the vest.”

  You and me both.

  “I’m just impressed you’re alive after the way you drank last night,” Richard said.

  “Ah, well, first night in Europe, have to do something to mark a new beginning,” he said, a rather peculiar choice of words. “In any case, I’m about to go on one of those city tours of Amsterdam if you would like to join. Starts in fifteen minutes.”

  “We’re from London, we practically invented bus tours, we’re good,” Nicholas said.

  DJ gave a hearty laugh as he tossed his head back. I sensed no resentment, irritation, or jealousy between any of those three. The only one who was holding back was Brady.

  And, well, me, but only in the sexual sense. I would still hang and talk with the guy, even if I’d have to try my hardest to keep my eyes up and not his body.

  “And the darling and the American?” DJ said, which drew a smile that I kept even as Brady shot me a look.

  “We have plans already, thanks,” I said, doing my own version of keeping things close to the vest.

  “Not for the evening, I hope.”

  Oh boy. I see what he’s doing here.

  “Not yet,” I said, words that left me annoyed with myself.

  For whatever reason, DJ didn’t say anything, though his smile had an air of certainty to it. A glance at my brother showed that he had not let up on the gaze—in fact, it had become more pronounced. He stared me down with an intensity like he’d display in an interrogation.

  “What brings you across the pond, as they say in the UK?” DJ asked.

  “Vacation,” I said in as neutral and non-flirtatious a tone as I could muster. “First time for the both of us.”

  “Ahh, cheers to that, first time in Europe?”

  “Eh,” I said as my mind flashed back to some of my past operations in places like Monaco, Kiev, Moscow, Istanbul—but never Amsterdam. “Somewhat.”

  I gave him a smile to assure him I was not pushing him away, but I had a terrible feeling given the narrowed eyes that I’d only encouraged the Australian God to continue his moves toward me. Just remember, you go for him, you get entangled, no one wins. It’s like the petting zoo. It’s beautiful to look at. But touch it, and all sorts of shit goes down.

  “Excellent, well, welcome, darling. I will be grabbing a drink later at a place with a view so fantastic, it will rival anything you have had stateside. I encourage you, and all of you,” he said, motioning out to the Brits. “To come. It will be a marvelous time.”

  With that, he gave a short bow of the head and his right hand. He walked past me, keeping eye contact until he had passed by, then left the room without glancing back. I watched hi
m until the door shut behind him.

  Charming. Handsome. Perfectly straddling the line between confident and cocky.

  Thank God I only had three nights with this guy—maybe less if he left before we did.

  “That guy’s the shit,” Richard said effusively.

  “DJ? Damn right,” Nicholas said. “We met the bloke yesterday. He showed us some of his books. Can’t say I’ve read any of them, well, honestly, can’t say I’ve read any fiction in a while. But we went out for drinks, and he bought all the rounds.”

  “For the lads!” Richard said as he held up an imaginary shot. When he saw my confused expression, he said, “We have this thing between us where whenever we take a shot, we just yell ‘for the lads!’ It’s just general, although if it’s someone specific, like DJ, we might say ‘for the DJ lad!’”

  “For the lads,” I repeated. “I like it.”

  “I told you, it’ll spread like Harry Potter and the Beatles,” Nicholas said.

  We shared a laugh, but once more, Brady was the only non-participant. I knew he wasn’t a fan of DJ, but this surprised me. I would not let our vacation start with him sour, so I went over to him, motioned with my head for the door, and he nodded.

  “So, Londoners—”

  “We’re from Manchester, love,” Nicholas said.

  “I—what? I’m not your love.”

  “Oh, sorry, it’s not sexual or flirtatious, it’s just what I say.”

  I wasn’t going to criticize Nicholas, especially since he sounded genuine. But if he kept calling me “love,” it would bug me. I was not anyone’s love, not in that sense, and wasn’t going to be in Europe.

  “Understood, sorry for saying Londoners. So, Brits! Since we are in Amsterdam and today is the one day we can consume the local delicacy before we have to prepare for drug tests back home, we are going to go eat some space cakes. Would either of you care to join us so I don’t have to listen to Brady argue about why the NFL conspires to keep the Jets at the bottom of the league?”

  “The Jets?” Richard interjected, sitting on his bed. “As in, the New York Jets?”